Chapter 192

Chapter 192

"I want the original records." Theodore repeated, tone brooking no argument.

Another silence.

"Alright, Mr. Prescott. I'll have my people compile them right away."

Half an hour later, the email didn't arrive. Instead, Ryan's emergency call came through.

"Boss! Major problem! The Morningstar project partner—the local government power department—just sent notice saying our generators have serious safety hazards. They've unilaterally terminated the power purchase agreement! At the same time, the local bank has frozen all our project funds, citing excessive project risk!"

This news was more dangerous than anything before.

It meant Morningstar, a project with over ten billion dollars invested, had instantly transformed from a profit center into a cash-devouring black hole.

"Where's Axel?" Theodore's voice was ice-cold.

"Can't reach him! Phone's off, office and residence are empty! I checked immigration records—he boarded a flight to Switzerland an hour ago!"

Everything became clear.

This wasn't an accident. It was betrayal from within.

Axel, a veteran who'd worked at the Prescott Group for over twenty years, had used a perfectly falsified report to placate headquarters, then absconded with the project's core technical data and liquid assets at the final moment of sabotage.

What he left behind was a ten-billion-dollar mess and a massive bomb that could detonate the Prescott Group's cash flow at any moment.

"Boss, we—" Ryan's voice carried a trace of panic.

"Notify Finance, Legal, and the head of Overseas Operations. Video conference in fifteen minutes."

Theodore cut him off and hung up.

He stood, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured a glass of whiskey, and drained it in one gulp.

The harsh liquid burned his throat but brought unusual clarity to his chaotic thoughts.

Angry?

Yes.

But more than that, a beast-like calm.

The Locke Group's blade had cut deep and cut hard.

The atmosphere in the video conference was even more oppressive than the last.

Everyone knew the importance of the Morningstar project and what its collapse meant.

"Boss, Africa is completely out of control. Our people can't even enter the project compound. According to preliminary estimates, if we can't resolve this within a month, direct losses plus breach-of-contract penalties will exceed twenty billion..." The CFO's face was white as paper.

"Now isn't the time to calculate losses." Theodore's voice wasn't loud, but it silenced everyone.

"First, immediately initiate asset recovery proceedings against Axel's overseas holdings. I don't care what it costs—hire the best legal team and nail him on charges of breach of trust and commercial fraud."

"Second, the Morningstar project gets sealed on-site. All expatriate staff withdraw in batches. Leave only essential technical personnel to protect core assets. We're not filling this hole. Not yet."

"Third—" He paused, then announced a decision that shocked everyone. "Sell all shares the group holds in Global Properties, plus three non-core subsidiary companies. At any price. Within three days, I want to see cash."

Global Properties was one of the Prescott Group's highest-quality real estate projects—a cash cow. Selling it now was like cutting off one's own arm.

"Boss! In this market, dumping these assets means taking at least a thirty percent loss!"

"I only want cash flow." Theodore looked at each person on the screen. "The Locke Group wants to see our cash flow break. Wants to see us dragged down by one project. I won't give them that satisfaction. We'll use the fastest speed possible to tell the market, tell everyone—the Prescott Group won't die."

When the meeting ended, dawn was breaking in the east.

Theodore hadn't slept all night. He leaned back on the couch, exhaustion washing over him like a tide.

The office door opened softly.

Yasmin walked in. No soup in her hands. No food.

She walked up to him and placed a document on the table.

"What's this?" Theodore's voice was hoarse.

"Asset transfer agreements for my design academy and all real estate under my personal name." Yasmin sat beside him, voice calm. "I've already contacted the bank. I can get twenty billion dollars in cash through collateral. It's not much, but it should help."

Theodore sat up abruptly, looking at her with bloodshot eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous!" He reached to push the document away.

Yasmin pressed his hand down.

Her hand was cool but steady.

"I'm not being ridiculous." She looked into his eyes, each word deliberate. "Theodore, we're husband and wife. Your problems are my problems. If the academy's gone, I can rebuild it. If the house is gone, I can buy another. But if the Prescott Group falls, you'll have nothing left."

Yasmin paused, then added, "I'm not that noble. I'm keeping the academy's core operations and team, just suspending all new projects and expansion plans to ensure minimum-cost operations. This money—consider it a loan to the company. When you recover, you'll pay me back with interest."

Yasmin deliberately used a light tone, as if discussing the most ordinary business transaction.

Theodore looked at her. His throat worked, but he couldn't speak.

In his life, he'd seen plenty of fair-weather friends and people who kicked others when they were down.

This kind of unconditional, consequence-be-damned support in a crisis—this was his first time encountering it.

He reached out, not for the document, but to pull Yasmin tightly, forcefully, into his arms.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck. Her sweet, clean scent drove away the lingering smell of smoke, alcohol, and exhaustion clinging to him.

The embrace was so tight it made Yasmin's breath catch.

She didn't move. Let him lean on her. His chin pressed against her shoulder, the slight scratch of stubble. In the air, his crisp cedarwood scent mixed with the night's lingering exhaustion and alcohol—no longer distant, but revealing a vulnerable authenticity.

After a long while, his muffled voice finally emerged, somewhat hoarse.

"I won't take it."

Yasmin tried to push him away. He only held tighter.

"Theodore, don't be stubborn."

"I'm not." He finally loosened slightly, but his hands remained around her waist, refusing to let go. He looked down at her, eyes bloodshot from the sleepless night but startlingly dark. "I told you. Prescott Group matters, I handle myself."

"Handle them with what? By throwing your life into that hole?" Yasmin was angry at his stubbornness.

"That agreement—take it back." He looked at her, each word measured. "But the money, I'll borrow."

Yasmin froze.

"What did you say?"

"I said, the money—I'll borrow it in the Prescott Group's name from you personally." Theodore looked at her, eyes carrying both a businessman's shrewdness and a man's pride. "We'll sign a formal loan contract, with the group's best assets as collateral, at the highest market interest rate. When this is over, principal plus interest—I'll pay you back every cent."

Theodore paused, then added another line.

"You said it yourself. Principal plus interest."

Yasmin looked at the seriousness in his eyes and suddenly understood.

This was his way of protecting her while protecting his own last shred of pride.

Theodore could accept his wife's help, but he couldn't let her lose everything for his sake.

This money wasn't her charity to him. It was her investment in his business.

Her anger dissipated instantly. She almost wanted to laugh.

"Mr. Prescott's got quite the calculator. My money didn't blow in on the wind. The interest won't be low."

Theodore watched Yasmin's face regain its spirit. The tight line of his jaw finally softened.

"Name your price."

He didn't touch the asset transfer agreement. Instead, he picked up the tablet she'd set aside—still displaying the European supplier list she'd compiled.

"These people—can I meet them?" he asked.

Yasmin raised an eyebrow. "What are you planning?"

"Poaching." Theodore's answer was brief and to the point.

What the Locke Group could do, he could do. And he'd do it more thoroughly.

Yasmin saw the fire reignite in his eyes. Not the madness of being cornered, but the focus and calm of a hunter locking onto prey.

She knew. The man called the Wolf of Wall Street had truly returned.

"Antonio, it's me. My husband wants to talk with you and a few old friends from the Alliance."

The so-called Alliance was an informal collaborative organization of designers and top-tier workshops that Yasmin had built over the years in European fashion circles through personal talent and reputation.

They shared resources, resisted hostile takeovers by big capital, and in an industry dominated by giants, banded together to protect their own corner of the world.

What they revered was craft. Legacy. The founder.

And Yasmin was that founder—respected by all.